Timing
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: John has no idea what he and Sherlock are doing, but he know that he loves the idiot. Telling him however is slightly problematic! (Written for kinkmeme prompt)Johnlock.
1. Timing

Written for the kinkmeme prompt at the bottom of the fic so as not to give away spoilers!

* * *

The thing with Sherlock is that he's a mad whirlwind dash of coat and hair, alabaster skin and brains. For the first three months of living with him, John barely manages to keep up, let alone sit and ponder his new flatmate.

It's only three weeks after the pool incident that John is able to sit and watch Sherlock during a rare, soothing moment when the man isn't prowling for something to engage his brain. He's experimenting in the kitchen (John is keeping a very close eye on the mug that was his preferred option when drinking coffee) and is staring at a pipet with such intense concentration that John feels himself start to smile. There's a fond thud in his stomach and an odd flutter in his chest.

Probably nerves, he decided, shaking himself and looking away, back down at the book. Or the curry last night.

* * *

They kiss while arguing about the proper procedure to ask the parents of the deceased whether their daughter may have been seeing three different people at the same time. Sherlock waggling the camera around, moments away from sulking because John was trying to explain that some people did not like seeing their very recently dead daughter stripping on camera.

Sherlock is just shy of cute when he looks flustered and confused. Pulling away he looks at the camera, as if it might suddenly hold the answer, then around as if to deduce the reasoning's and motivations of their kiss from the garden fence.

That feeling wells up again and John pushes it down ruthlessly.

Bad enough to start snogging outside the victims house while Lestrade tries to smooth things over. Declaring things like…like…feelings can probably wait.

"We will continue this later," Sherlock decides haughtily, stomping back inside.

It's amazing just how fast Sherlock's brain works when given the proper incentive. By half past four they are home, having beaten the rush hour traffic and are continuing in fine form on the sofa.

And the rug.

And the kitchen table.

And against the fridge.

* * *

Sherlock asleep is frankly a miracle. In fact it takes a month of…of whatever it is they're doing for John to finally manage to witness it. It's impossible not to stroke his hair and stare in fascination at the way sleep softens his angular face and makes him look almost innocent.

Almost. It is Sherlock after all and John might be in love but he's not a complete blind moron-

Oh fuck.

Love.

Damn.

* * *

Sherlock is either being wilfully evasive or is just showing his utter ignorance in "unimportant matters" again.

"Sherlock…what are we doing?"

"Now?" Sherlock looked at John with some disappointment. "Breaking into a gymnasium," he shook his head; lock pick sliding in with ease.

"No…us. Between us. What exactly would you say is happening?"

Sherlock stopped, turned and raised an eyebrow.

"Right," John nodded once. "We'll talk about it when we get in," he looked down the road.

"Talk about what?" Sherlock started up again. "If you are uncomfortable with the arrangement-"

"No," John interrupted firmly. "No," he clarified, "I just wanted to-"

"To?"

"Security guard," John declared, suddenly spotting a torch in the distance (thank you god!), "I'll just go and deal with that."

Sherlock waved a dismissive, rather imperious hand at him.  
Thankfully they're both too exhausted to talk when they get in.

And Sherlock makes no comment when John collapses on his bed instead of the one upstairs.

Like hell is he climbing up another flight.

* * *

It's strange.

They live together, pretty much sleep together (or at least Sherlock wanders into the bedroom that John really shouldn't be thinking of as "theirs" and thinks or reads and occasionally sleeps), they go out to dinner, watch TV together. John cooks for Sherlock and then taps his foot threateningly until Sherlock eats something. Sherlock actually plays the violin rather than torture it when John stumbles out into the living room at four in the morning after a case awakens some lurking memories.

It's like a relationship. Probably the most successful relationship John has ever been a part of.

They just don't discuss it. Ever. Or anything else to do with the relationship.

If someone had told John when he was twenty that he would end up in this situation he probably would have been chuffed to bits. He hated deep meaningful discussions; the ones where his partner/girlfriend stared at him expectantly and waited for him to read out poetry or declare undying love. It was awkward and odd.  
Except it wasn't now. Not when he was really feeling it for once. Finally feeling that soaring feeling that he had assumed for years was an idealised fantasy.

But Sherlock clearly didn't want to discuss it. Whether it was the sentimentality or he was in the position that John had found himself in over the years (namely that awful sinking feeling of realising the other person was far more into the relationship than he was and wishing to God he'd seen the signs earlier to have spared hurt feelings) John had no idea. But he respected the fact all the same.

He'd think it though. When Sherlock was blazing across a crime scene in all his glory or when he was lazing around in his dressing gown, earnest and as eager as a child to find something new and interesting. Moments when they lay next to each other, naked and panting. Sometimes John would dare trace a few letters of the words into Sherlock's skin when he was half dozing.

I love you.

Always.

* * *

John could admit when he was an idiot.

Which was more than you could say for a certain someone. A certain jealous someone who had looked frankly bewildered when John had come stomping back in from work.

Bewildered and relieved.

"Why did you tell Mycroft I was on a date?" John asked glaring down at the sprawled out consulting detective.

"You're wearing the correct socks."

John stared down at his shoes, lost for a moment and then shook his head, "It was dark this morning," he defended.

"You were texting a Fiona."

"Sarah's cousin," John nodded, "Is visiting this week and wanted to know where to go."

Sherlock settled back, as if being proved right was a comfort to him. "Don't be so naïve John."

"You think Sarah would set me up with her cousin? The same Sarah who happens to know that you and I bed hop every other night?"

"I fail to see why that would be an issue. You have a track record of being monogamous."

"Do you really think that much of me?" John snapped. "That I would just start on with the next one and stop seeing you?"

"We are in a mutually beneficial arrangement," Sherlock said not looking at him. "No need to pretend otherwise."

Which would have been fine (well not fine, but John could have gone upstairs and stared at the door in a sad but still manly way) except for the fact that John had lived with Sherlock too long not to hear the waver in his voice. The waver that so few would have ever picked up on. In fact, possibly the only other person that would have picked up on it would be the same person that had given John a lift home that afternoon and haughtily given the poshest and scariest version of "what do you think you are doing to my brother" speech.

Sherlock wanted more.

Stunned, John just went upstairs, his brain stuttering in shock and unable to process much further than that for the night.

* * *

When John reviewed the situation he couldn't help but think he might have been a complete shit in the situation.

Operation "Make it better" needed to commence.

As did apparently operation "create better mission names".

* * *

It struck John as romantic in the correct way to take Sherlock back to Angelo's, back to the table and to declare his feelings there.

Unfortunately Angelo seemed to have picked up on Sherlock's feelings as well and refused to so much as look at a candle, continually interrupted John's stumbling words and seemed beyond delighted when Sherlock was called to a case.

John stared at the empty seat in frustration, then at the faintly pleased smile on Angelo's face.

"I was trying to tell him something," John muttered.

Angelo eyed him warily. "Sherlock feels more than he admits to."

"As do I," John snapped.

Angelo blinked and then looked at John as if seeing him again for the first time. A delighted smile crossed his face and suddenly John was faced with an overly enthusiastic ex-car-thief Italian who insisted on feeding John the entire menu to make up for the mistake.

Not Angelo's then, John thought on his way home. The man had looked so pleased he'd probably tell Sherlock himself; like an excited child spilling birthday secrets to their parents.

* * *

In bed then. Sherlock was usually more relaxed there anyway. And, having solved three cases in as many days, was currently lazing around like a rather proud cat.

John traced his side, fingers gliding up and down the soft skin there, a possessive wave hitting him in the gut. "Tired?" he asked gently.

Sherlock pushed back into him slightly, "Not really," he said sounding a bit distant. "You have an unnatural obsession with my sleeping habits."

John smiled against the skin of his neck, nodding.

They said nothing. Sherlock still off on some distant cloud while John panicked.

"Sherlock, these past few months-"

Sherlock sat up, suddenly alert.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"There may be a possibility I left a snake in the hall," Sherlock cocked his head as if he could hear the damn thing.

"When you say possibility…"

Downstairs Mrs Hudson screamed suddenly.

"A high possibility," Sherlock slid out of bed.

* * *

In bed wasn't an option then.

John stared miserably at the television.

"John! Case!" Sherlock said it like one would tell their dog to heel.

Why the hell not?

* * *

The body was in a hairdressers shop. At the side a woman was sobbing into a slightly flustered looking Lestrade who seemed to be trying to aim her in the direction of anyone else.

Well, apart from Sherlock.

The young man was face down, a nasty wound at the base of his neck that had Sherlock twisting all over the body from the most obscure angles as if trying to observe every possible view point.

"John."

Kneeling down opposite him John nodded.

"Murder weapon? Give me a description," Sherlock ordered, still twisting and turning about. His eyes sharp and focused, the long lean lines of him folded and ready to spring at a moment's notice.

He really was incredible.

"I love you," John thought.

Sherlock froze.

Oh god! Had he just said that out loud?

Wincing, John turned his head fractionally. Sure enough those closest to them had stopped what they were doing and were looking at him in stunned amazement.

John dragged a knuckle across the rough floor, wincing when the skin scraped. So he was definitely awake then.

Shit!

"Uh, curved," John stammered loudly. "Sharp…" Oh bugger. His mind had gone blank and Sherlock was probably about to launch into another 'obvious' rant.

But Sherlock was still frowning at nothing, the look he had when he was usually trying to form a conclusion from the facts he'd been presented with.

"So…" John sat back on his heels, trying not to look at what suddenly seemed like half of Scotland Yard. "Any thoughts?"

"Scissors," Sherlock said sounding a little vague. "Shorter…shorter killer. Scissors that are small enough to be hid in the palm of the hand. Angered attack, short blade pressed in hard and tugged at."

"That's-"

"Receptionist," Sherlock declared. "She-" he suddenly frowned. "Why did you just say that?"

"The bit before?" John asked feeling a little adrift.

"Yes. That…statement."

"Uh…just thought you'd like to know. That. That I did." John stared at the floor and cleared his throat.

"Ah," Sherlock nodded and then stared at the body in silence.

There was no word to describe how awkward this was. And John had once watched Sherlock attempt to explain the techniques of fellatio to Molly. It was paralysing enough that they just sat with each other, as if the body were a table and this was an especially bad date.

"For pity sakes," Lestrade hissed, suddenly close by. "Pair of you, off my crime scene. Now."

* * *

They made it down to a Starbucks down the road which Sherlock (for once) didn't complain about. It was late enough that there was hardly anyone in and they sat in the corner with the coffee John bought.

"So…any response?"

Sherlock shook his head, taking a sip. "How long?" he asked suddenly.

"Um…a while." John stirred his coffee even though he took nothing to stir in. "Mistook it for a dodgy curry at first."

Sherlock's eyebrows drew together in confusion.

"Oh, the feeling" John clarified. "The unsettling feeling."

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Are you processing-"

"Yes."

Right. Well, John leaned back and looked around as Sherlock looked thoughtful.

"We don't have to talk about it," John said suddenly. This was not going at all how he thought it would. He'd imagined Sherlock being…delighted? An odd image of Sherlock jumping up and down the way he did when a new body was found popped into his head. "We can just…" he faltered and looked out and away to the counter, "Not talk about it."

"Still processing."

Ah.

"Out of curiosity, what is it that you're processing?"

Sherlock suddenly gave him a disappointed look, "I would have thought that were obvious John, or did you go around declaring your affections for everyone today?"

"No, no, just you," John said mildly.

Sherlock nodded and sat, occasionally taking sips of his coffee.

In the end John just reached over and grabbed a paper from the sofa, glancing up at Sherlock at the end of every paragraph.

The expression didn't change.

Seven minutes later Sherlock nodded suddenly. "I accept."

What the hell was he meant to do with that response?"

"Good," John nodded. "Good…can I just check…you're accepting that I love you?"

"That is what I said."

"Right." John placed the paper to the side. "It's not the most traditional reply to that statement."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, frowning suddenly as he realised his coffee was now cold and no longer that appetising to drink. "What were you hoping for?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Hoping for?" John licked his lips nervously. "A similar statement."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Of course I love you too," he said with a huff, as if John were a complete idiot.

John sat back and nodded, then felt a small delighted grin edge its way onto his face. Sherlock caught his eye and snorted in laughter.

"So the murder weapon was sharp?" Sherlock asked, looking more and more amused.

"Hey you missed the fact that I've been in love with you for months," John complained. "Cut me some slack."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

The prompt was:

John finally decides he's going to tell Sherlock he loves him (either established relationship or not) but everytime he works up the nerve to do so they get interrupted. So after a week he finally snaps and shouts it in front of half the Yard while Sherlock's in the middle of deducing. What are everyone's reactions?

Sherlock: What do you determine as cause of death, John?"  
John: *shouting* I LOVE YOU! I have for ages and I want to spend the rest of my life loving you.  
Sherlock: ...seriously, you choose to say this now?  
Yard: O.o  
John: And cause of death is...


	2. Rules

Rules

Originally intended to fulfil a prompt. Now that Sherlock and John's relationship have changed, Sherlock knows there are some rules that they have to follow. It's pretty much light daftness!

* * *

It was a stupid idea, right from the start.

Oh, not the bit where he finally (finally!) got to taste John; to listen to the sounds, to feel his hands and skin. No, that was gloriously interesting. The scar alone was worth a few days of analysis.

No, it was the bit outside the bedroom; the bit where they had decided to become…more.

And John, dear stupid John, had decided to declare his feelings to the entirety of Scotland Yard, as well as Sherlock himself.

Sherlock should have just said thank you and let it lie.

He didn't do relationships; it should have been obvious to anyone who had talked to him for three minutes that he didn't do them. Messy emotions, compromise, reassurance, attention, space; these were hardly things he could give a person.

* * *

"Fancy dinner tonight?" John asked easily.

Dinner. Fun, relaxed. John laughing with him, talking about the stab wound on the corpse fished out of the-

No. Dinner. Romantic. What was he meant to do for that?

"No," Sherlock said watching John. It seemed foolish to start off without knowing exactly what would be expected from such a dinner.

The ease didn't fade from his actions as John shrugged and continued to read the paper. "You are going to eat something though," John warned as he turned the page. "Even if I have to mash it up and pour it down your throat."

There were rules about this. Sherlock knew the rules. No threatening your partner; it was apparently a little odd.

"That's the incorrect way to talk to your lover," Sherlock told him frankly.

John paused, narrowed his eyes and looked up. "Huh?"

"Threatening to force feed me. I believe that's inappropriate."

Three times John opened and closed his mouth as if he couldn't decide what to say. "Then eat," he suggested finally, turning back to the paper and muttering something under his breath.

"As is muttering."

John dropped the paper to his lap. "That's never bothered you before."

"Now it does." Apparently. But Sherlock wasn't going to be the only one forced into these ridiculous relationship rules.

"Okay," John shrugged. "I swear to God you're trying to drive me insane you complete and utter nutter." He picked up the paper again as if making a point. "There, that wasn't under my breath."

Sherlock watched him, running through the lists of complaints he'd received over the years. John had probably narrowly escaped most of them.

"Yes?" John swung his gaze to the side to look at Sherlock.

Ah, yes. The most irritating one; the issue people had with him staring at them. Rolling his eyes, he looked away and simply recreated the picture of John reading the paper in his mind and stared at that instead as he closed his eyes.

* * *

"We have been dating for a week," Sherlock pointed out to John as he came out of the bedroom; hair still sticking up from their activities the night before.

John nodded and continued to the kettle.

"A week, John," Sherlock prompted.

"Mm," John agreed.

"We should…" Sherlock steeled himself, hating the idea, but knowing it was expected. "Complete a romantic activity."

"No," John muttered. "Not again. I'm exhausted. And old," he added, a little pathetically.

"No, not sex." That was frowned upon; mistaking love and sex. Not that Sherlock had ever mistaken the two before, because everyone had been utterly dull, but they were in love and apparently it would cause issues to not clearly separate the two. "An activity."

John blinked at him, turned and yawned. "Like a date?" he asked, perking up a little.

Sherlock nodded.

John flashed him a grin. "Okay…yeah, that'd be nice actually." Suddenly he hesitated and shot Sherlock a suspicious look. "Wait…this is a date right and not a crime that you tell me is a date so you can kill two birds with one stone?"

No. He'd been told off about that before. "I know how to date, John," Sherlock muttered petulantly.

"I don't mind," John added, watching him with a strange look. "It's just nice to know beforehand that I might get called a different name or be running out on the cheque."

Wait…Sherlock stared at John. "Those weren't dates," he said carefully, feeling a little concerned. "I never labelled them as such."

"Oh." Confusing as it was, Sherlock could have sworn he saw a flicker of hurt cross John's face. "Right. Yeah, we were just…" he looked away and swallowed. "So the date," he said in a falsely upbeat voice. "What would you like to do?"

Like? That didn't come into it. Dinner would be nice but dinner conversation might be difficult…

Ah.

"A film at the cinema." It was oddly acceptable to rip into a film, unless your partner enjoyed it. If he was going to channel his frustration at these rules he should probably find something that John would find easy watching but was hardly passionate about.

"A…the cinema?" John asked, as if Sherlock had suggested they go on a murder spree, which would probably be more enjoyable. "You want to go to the cinema?"

"It is an acceptable place to go for a date."

"Um…" John scrubbed at his eyes. "Well…yeah, I suppose but-"

"And then dinner. French or Italian?"

"You hate French food," John folded his arms. "It reminds you of Mycroft."

"It's romantic food."

John stared at him.

"Don't stare, it's rude," Sherlock told him prissily.

"Really?" John asked, his tone suddenly dangerously flat.

"Yes." What was the problem? Sherlock had listened to every single one of the dating rules that he had endured as a young adult. It was John that was being lax. Perhaps this was why he failed to fall into bed with the women he attempted to woo.

John pushed himself off the counter angrily and made his way to the door.

"Don't just walk away." That was another big rule.

"Why?" John turned around looking furious. "Jesus, if you didn't want this you could have just said. I'm not playing these games with you."

"Games?" Sherlock stood. "I…you are the one not doing this properly."

"Go screw yourself," John shouted over his shoulder furiously.

Well, bugger it then. "That's a pedestrian phrase, John," Sherlock called after him as John marched down the stairs. "It's incorrect and dull!" he added with a yell.

Stalking back into the living room he sat as he waited for the door downstairs to slam shut. Instead, confusingly, there were slow steps up the stairs and John appeared in the doorway.

That? That was what made him come back in? John was worse at these relationship rules than Sherlock was.

There was a long stretch of silence that Sherlock waited out. He was not the one in the wrong here; he'd done everything that he was meant to.

"Are you being serious?" John asked slowly. "You want…traditional?"

No, that didn't sound right. "I…there are rules to dating," Sherlock said slowly. "Rules for a successful relationship. You have utterly ignored them."

Nodding slowly, John stepped forward. "And these…rules?" he asked carefully. "Are they ones you've come up with or are they ones that people have tried to impose on you?"

"They are the rules of society." Sherlock rolled his eyes at having to explain it to John.

Sucking in a strange breath, John sat down opposite him. "All right," he said in the same careful tone. "Can you explain these rules to me so that we're on the same page?"

Really did everything need to be handed to John step by step?

"No running out during 'quality time', no discussing murder or rape at dinner, no staring. No deducing while outside of the bedroom, no-one has ever complained about it inside the bedroom. No using dates to solve crimes-"

John made an odd noise and leaned forward to bury his face in his hands.

"-no threatening your significant other or being too possessive and threatening to kill others for them, no following them-"

John's head jumped up from his hands and he seemed to be oddly considering that one.

Sherlock sighed, "No offensive comments to family members and friends, no declaring pedestrian interests as such, no experiments at night, no playing at night, no leaving the bed in the night-"

John sat back looking pained.

"I can write it down," Sherlock offered. "There are rather a lot to remember."

John stared at him, running the side of his forefinger across his mouth thoughtfully before dropping his hand to the arm of the chair. "With the possible exception of being followed," John said carefully. "Can we not follow those rules?"

"We will have an unsuccessful relationship," Sherlock huffed. "This is the first time I have cared to ensure we do it properly, ergo, we need to follow the rules."

John leaned forward and picked up Sherlock's hand. "Just…you know, out of curiosity here, tell me one point in our dealings so far where we have followed the friend rules?"

Oh God. "There are friend rules?" Sherlock asked distastefully.

"Yeah, they go something like not cockblocking your friend, not getting him fired, not summoning him across the city to answer the phone, not using his favourite mug to test the erosion capacity of poisons, not leaving heads in the fridge without telling him about it. They also include not calling him a wanker, threatening him, playing tricks on him so he eats and drinks, not letting him use an illegal gun that you should not have brought him, not thanking him for saving your life and very, very rarely do they agree that you should kill someone to save the friend when the friend is being a moron." John stared at him pointedly.

"Ah," Sherlock sat back. "That would be an issue then." No wonder people gave them strange looks.

"Sherlock…I hate those rules," John explained. "We don't work with those rules. We're more, you know, the exception that proves the rule?"

Unsure, Sherlock watched him carefully.

"And if we both find the rules stupid and boring then we should make up our own ones?" John stroked the back of his hand. "Yeah?"

"Such as?"

"Such as please god go out on a case because you are driving me mad," John said pleadingly. "And…nothing changes except for the fact that we…" he seemed to frown. "No, nothing changes from before I said 'I love you'."

"But we weren't together then?" Sherlock said trying to sort it out in his head.

"One thing changes," John smiled. "But I was happy. I just wanted to be able to say I love you and be able to tell strangers and friends that you were mine. That was all I wanted to change."

That sounded…pleasant actually. Rather pleasant.

"We're not going to the cinema," Sherlock announced, standing and drawing his hand from John's.

Looking a little relieved, John grinned up at him.

"So you won't complain?" Sherlock asked. "If I run out on dinner, forget to meet with you or forget to talk to you?"

"No," John looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "I'll complain. Then you'll whine that I'm too stupid to see your priorities, then I'll kiss you to shut you up and then we can have sex. That's usually how we've done it before."

Sherlock nodded. "I liked before," he confessed. "I didn't want to change that."

"Neither did I," John soothed. "And it's our relationship; we do what works for us. Got it?"

Got it.

Why did no-one else do this? It was far more sensible.


End file.
